


Poodles, Parks & Half a Pryanik

by Gee_Writes



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Ballet Dancer Katsuki Yuuri, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, M/M, Medical Procedures, Meet-Cute, Slow Build, Veterinary Clinic, Vicchan Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-06-28 01:12:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19801648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gee_Writes/pseuds/Gee_Writes
Summary: The first truly pleasant day of the year as winter finally broke into spring; sunshine sparkling off the Neva in fragments of light and promise.It was on this day that Viktor Nikiforov, legendary figure skater freshly off his latest win at Worlds and revelling in the freedom of the off-season, leashed his beloved canine partner Makkachin for an extended walk.This is that story.





	Poodles, Parks & Half a Pryanik

❖

Warm weather had encouraged the city of St Petersburg to the streets, parks and riverside. The first truly pleasant day of the year as winter finally broke into spring; the sunshine sparkling off the Neva in fragments of light and promise. It was on this day that Viktor Nikiforov, legendary figure skater freshly off his latest win at Worlds and revelling in the freedom of the off-season, leashed his beloved canine partner Makkachin for an extended walk.

The most recent gold he had won in Osaka weighed heavy on his mind—another year of record-breaking programs, another year of trying to futilely surprise the audience. Now, with so much success, everyone expected the win. Viktor had poured his heart into fighting the expectations, the ideals, of the audience and judges for years, and although his scores always had him at the top of the podium, it hardly felt like an achievement anymore; instead just filling the role he had been assigned by fate. His head full of fog, he hoped the energy of the springtime air would help disperse it. Hoped that he’d be forgiven by Makka for ulterior motives.

The standard poodle had been his closest companion for longer than most could remember; but Viktor could recite exactly how much time together they’d shared—the day, the hour, the minute he had first bundled the curly fluffball in his embrace. She was probably used to his selfish behaviour by now, but indulged him in it anyway. Forgiving the travel days and long rink hours in exchange for nothing more than a thorough belly scratch and the occasional fair-weather walk. Fourteen long years by his side, and her love still unconditional.

He truly didn’t deserve her.

You would never guess that she was getting close to 14 years old by the way she bounds around, happily sniffing against trees and telephone poles. Tail wagging and ears perked at any of the friendly dogs that pass—their owners having the same idea for the comfortable morning. The closest park is only about a five minute walk from his apartment, but there’s no need to speed through the streets as usual, and he lets Makka take as much time as she needs.

By the time they reach the park, it’s filled with other people—some with dogs, others with their partners or children; sometimes all three. Picnic blankets have been scattered around the grassy knolls and large trees; laughter and conversation floating in the air. Kids run after each other, and dogs weave around them trying to join. It’s exactly what Viktor had hoped for, and the positive energy, the joy, makes him grin at his darling poodle as he retrieves her old, worn, beloved tennis ball from his pocket and unclips her leash. There’s a large sporting field attached to the park, which is why it’s so popular with dog owners—letting them run around freely without disturbing others. Aiming for an area further out than the clustered picnickers, the ball moves in it’s arc, bouncing briefly as it hits the ground. Makkachin barrels after it, and Viktor jogs to meet her further onto the flat grass. A group of teens is playing a game of amateur football at one end of the field, but dogs fill the rest—all types barking and running and rolling around. Makkachin retrieves her ball with ease, although a curious Labrador does try to challenge her for it. She sniffs, unimpressed, and Viktor couldn’t be more proud as she trots back to him, ignoring the other dog.

They carry on like that for a while; the mid-morning sun moving higher in the sky. It’s only after the majority of the other dog owners seem to have left that Viktor throws the ball one last time, watching as the ageing poodle jumps to catch it in her mouth—a perfect GOE, if he was judging. She chews on the ball a little, repositioning it in her jaw, before looking to Viktor for praise. He’s about to give her just that when her ears prick and her attention snaps away, head cocked to one side before trotting towards the other end of the park. She had dropped the ball as she left, and Viktor’s left to retrieve the slobbery toy before trying to catch up. She stops to look at him whenever he calls her name, but just continues on her path as soon as he tries to get closer.

As puzzling as the situation is, Viktor can’t help but be curious as to what has caught Makkachin’s attention—this behaviour is so out of the ordinary, he wants to see this impromptu journey to its end. And if it all turned out to be an act of late-onset rebellion from his companion, he couldn’t begrudge her that. If he had been in her position, he would have started causing mischief far sooner. They reach the end of the open field where the dogs run around, hitting the park proper without hesitation. There are still groups, families, scattered around picnic blankets and playgrounds, but the poodle ignores them all.

They’re matching strides as they seem to get closer to wherever their destination is, and Viktor has to quickly course-correct when Makkachin takes an abrupt left, disappearing behind a bush. A happy exclamation comes from where she is, and a kind voice asks, “Now where did you come from?” in heavily-accented Russian.

Viktor quickly follows his dog around the bush, discovering a bench hidden from the pathway by its expansive growth. He’s about to apologise to the stranger for interrupting his peace and retrieve the poodle, but his voice fades out once he lays eyes on the scene. The young man is leaning forward, one hand patting down her back as he tries to read the Cyrillic of her name tag. Makka sits at his feet, tail wagging, and seems to be sniffing at another poodle far smaller than her. The miniature ball of curls licks at her nose, and she sneezes back, happily.

After several attempts, it seems the other man gives up on trying to read Makka’s collar and sits back with a sigh. It’s only then that he notices Viktor, jumping a little in his seat before exhaling a laugh.

“Sorry, I didn’t notice–” brown eyes blown wide and smile dropping to shock as he seems to recognise Viktor. A hushed breath escaping with a word, barely audible for anyone not paying attention.

“Wow.”

Viktor shares the sentiment.

The other man is Asian, quite obviously so, although Viktor couldn’t reliably guess to the specifics. Bundled up in a sweater and balancing a thick novel on his lap, large glasses only seem to make his eyes look bigger. The soft curve of his cheek is brushed with pink from the still-brisk wind, and his bottom lip is softly bitten between his teeth. He’s pale from the Russian winter, but Viktor can see a warm richness of sunshine living in his skin anyway. His previous smile had lifted higher on one side, and his hair falls messily from where it peeks out from his hat. It’s not like Viktor had ever been sheltered from the gorgeous elite of Russian society throughout his life, but the other man is nothing like them and their eerie perfection looking out from the pages of magazine spreads and cinema screens. There’s an approachable quality to him that pulls Viktor’s interest, and he’s utterly captivated. It’s been a long time since he’s felt relaxed around another person—no immediate responsibilities or role he needs to play—and he’s immensely happy he had decided to enjoy the warm weather instead of holing up in his apartment.

Luckily it doesn’t seem like Viktor’s the only one lost for words, watching as the other man keeps trying to start saying something, before hesitating and biting his voice back. Not wanting to lose an opportunity, he nods towards the two poodles, still happily sniffing, oblivious to their humans’ interactions.

“I think our dogs like each other.”

This is how he meets Yuuri Katsuki.

❖

Yuuri introduced himself as a recent addition to St Petersburg—having moved for work barely three months before, and bringing his beloved poodle along. He was a long-time fan of Viktor’s, apparently, which is why he had recognised him, and had even skated as a hobby when he had lived in his hometown. Surprisingly though, despite knowing that Yuuri had followed his career, he didn’t feel uncomfortably self-conscious like he often did with other fans as the conversation had gone on. There was a very obvious respect and admiration for his career and achievements, but none of the expectant demands, needling questions or rude speculation he often came across with others. Perhaps it was the situation, being brought together by their poodles, that made the transition of conversation easier, but Viktor couldn’t complain. It had been a long time since he had met someone he wanted to spend more time with.

He needed more friends, and Yuuri seemed like the perfect candidate.

They had walked the edge of the oval at least three times as they conversed—mostly in English, but with a mishmash of Russian and French thrown in for good measure too—before Yuuri had checked his watch and cringed at the time. Apologising for cutting the conversation short, he thanked Viktor before turning to leave. Neither had made any concrete plans to meet again, or had exchanged contact details, but that wasn’t going to deter Viktor from spending another afternoon with the other man. When he had said that they should do this again, Yuuri had just replied with a smile and a nod. Sunshine hitting both the curve of his lips and his glasses in one perfect moment.

“Well, you know where to find me.”

❖

Four days after their first meeting (but who’s counting?), Viktor finds Yuuri walking his own small poodle, wonderfully named Vicchan, around the edge of the playing fields. The three previous days Viktor had revisited the same spot in the park every day for a suspiciously long time. Really, he had just been giving Makkachin longer and longer walks trying to make up for the time lost during the season—and if they had lingered around the bench in the bushes, he would have claimed it wasn’t by design.

He can’t fight the growing smile he has at seeing Yuuri again, though.

His back is turned towards Viktor, so the skater takes a moment to take a deep breath before approaching. The sun is high in the morning sky, but the chilly wind justifies the jacket he has on—the slight shake in his hands can’t be attributed to the breeze though. The little dog runs close zigzags as he weaves from smell to smell, and neither he or his owner seem to notice Viktor and Makka until the standard poodle barks loudly in recognition. Yuuri smiles and waves, calling a greeting in Russian after he turns around, and Viktor offers his own.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Yuuri says in a teasing tone, and Viktor almost trips over himself at how happy he is to be at the receiving end of it. Two-time Olympic skater, master of the quad flip, and about to fall flat on his ass because a beautiful boy paid him some attention.

“Yeah.” he replies, like an inexperienced teen trying to impress the cool kids. He’s almost surprised his voice doesn’t crack. He’s overeager, excited at meeting his new friend again but Yuuri doesn’t scoff at Viktor acting in such a lame way; instead stifling a giggle in his sleeve. It’s incredibly endearing.

They wander around the park as their dogs chase each other happily and with gusto. It’s somewhat of a shock seeing Makka with such high energy considering how old she is, and Yuuri voices a similar opinion of his own little toy. She was probably needing a friend too, like her Papa. Their barking is full of joy, and Viktor can’t help but smile as he and Yuuri watch over them.

As their dogs chase each other in glee, they talk about the upcoming White Nights of the summer season. It’s the first time Yuuri will experience the never-ending daylight, and he’s excited for the planned festivities.

“It’ll be so weird leaving a show with the sky still light,” he says, stretching his arms above his head as if reaching for the sky itself. “But it’s better than the 18 hours of night winter was. Jogging to rehearsal in the dark just made it feel even colder.”

Viktor’s attention piques, and he turns to the Japanese man with obvious curiosity. “What kind of rehearsal?”

“Oh, um. Dance. I’m a danseur,” he replies plainly. Viktor, on the other hand, thinks he may have involuntarily squeaked at the news. “My old teacher found me an amazing opportunity here in St Petersburg to improve my technique. I guess I forgot to mention that.”

Ballet is one of the staples of the city, and Viktor had lived amongst the stern, single-minded elite of Russian dancers for longer than he can remember. Attending the same parties, amassing the same glory, avoiding the same paparazzi. It is perhaps the only thing that the city churns out more of than its winter athletes—figure skaters included. It’s a horribly competitive field and only the most dedicated, the most unshakeable, survive to see the top. He’d always had respect for the skill required (an obvious product of dealing with Lilia and her brutal expectations of perfection) but had always found the dancers themselves cold and the personalities impenetrable. Untouchable. The total opposite of Yuuri.

“Wow, yeah—well, not to say that I doubt you or your abilities, because I’m sure you’re wonderful Yuuri, but I’d never have guessed.”

“Well, I’m far from being a principal dancer,” Yuuri laughs sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck with a hand. “I still have a lot to improve on before I even start to reach the levels other dancers my age are.”

Viktor doesn’t like the self-deprecation Yuuri radiates despite the smile, even if he suspects it’s probably true. He wants to support his new friend.

“I guess I’ll have to make my own assessment. I’d love to see a show your company is putting on.”

“We do have an upcoming production at the Hermitage Theatre in the summer if you don’t mind Swan Lake.” A classic, tragic Russian ballet. Viktor sighed inwardly; how predictable. He had used to love it—the idea of a love so strong that it would push you to die without the other—but now after years of surviving, drifting, alone it felt impossible.

“I’ll get you tickets if you want,” Yuuri continues.

Even if he’s not a fan of the show itself, Viktor still wants to see Yuuri dance. Wants to see if the young Japanese man was just as captivating on stage as he was off of it.

“I can buy my own.”

“No, no, it’s OK. I get a set amount of tickets to share with family and friends for shows anyway, but I don’t have too many of either here in St Petersburg.” His laugh is somewhat nervous this time, brown eyes intensely trained to the ground, as if the patchy dandelion leaves are the most interesting thing he had ever seen.

“You can be my first friend to watch my Russian debut.”

❖

Rather than having to stalk their favourite spot to meet with Yuuri again, Viktor actually remembers to exchange numbers after the second time. It makes it much easier for them to organise a walking time that’s convenient for them both to meet—although admittedly Viktor has nothing else on his schedule that would ever take priority.

Thanks to having the other man now texting him on a semi-regular basis now, Viktor jumps to his phone whenever he hears a notification go off. Things are no different when the chime rings out first thing on a Thursday morning, groping around his bedside table, frowning when he realises it’s only an official looking email—the FFKK inquiring to his schedule for an upcoming ice show in Moscow. Viktor had told Yakov to refuse anything extra over this summer, but the officials were obviously not willing to take the curmudgeonly coach as the final word if they had reached out directly. He sighs and types the most generically dismissive response back. He’s still unsure about if he’s even _wanting_ to return to the ice next season, let alone now.

He needs the break.

Dumping his phone to the bed as he throws one arm against his eyes, Viktor huffs a laugh when Makkachin gives a warbly noise of inquiry, sticking her nose in the small gap between his shoulder blade and neck to lick there. The rough wetness tickles, and he rolls over to give her an overzealous kiss and fur ruffle back.

“Your Papa is pretty hopeless, huh Makka?”

She says nothing back, but her tail wags happily against the sheets, glad he’s looking at her now. He _really_ doesn’t deserve her.

The phone chimes again and he groans. He reaches one hand back to retrieve it whilst the other keeps running over Makka’s tight curls. This time it is Yuuri, and Viktor sits upright in excitement. He replies as quickly as he can, and jumps up out of bed to shower just as quickly.

Yuuri is already sitting at an outdoor table of the coffee shop when Viktor arrives, two steaming teapots already on the table—a small one filled with _zavarka_ , the other large one, boiling water—and Vicchan tied to one of the table legs. The small poodle is obediently curled up next to Yuuri’s foot, only jumping up with a bark when he sees Makkachin. Yuuri waves them both over, and pulls out the seat for Viktor once he gets closer.

“I’m glad it isn’t so busy here, aside from the work rush,” Yuuri says once they’re both seated. “The place closer to my apartment is always full by now. Oh, I hope you don’t mind that I ordered ahead.” Looking at the smaller teapot with a nod.

“Not at all. What kind of tea did you get?”

“Green; although it’s nothing close to the matcha blend back home.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, but this is better than the alternative. It’s a travesty what you Russians call drinking tea.”

“Hey!” Viktor laughs before waving over a waitress and placing an order for that exact travesty; strongly brewed black with a pot of marmalade on the side. “Tea isn’t complete without jam.”

Yuuri sighs forlornly and his body droops over his teacup in an act of faux upset. “I feel betrayed, Viktor.”

“How about I make it up to you with some pryanik?”

Yuuri sits up straighter again at that, and shakes his head apologetically. “Oh, no, thank you, you don’t have to do that.” There’s a flush of red painting his cheeks now the dancer takes another gulp of tea. “I gain weight easily and I was always a chubby kid; with the show coming up...well, I can’t afford to indulge.”

Viktor knows all too well the strict nature of an athlete’s diet, so he just nods in understanding and doesn’t push the idea, instead latching on to the new information—images of a round-cheeked, soft little boy emerging in his imagination.

“I’m sure you were the cutest kid, Yuuri!”

“ _Haah_ , I’m not too sure about that. The rest of my ballet class would call me fat, growing up.”

Viktor is hurt and shocked for his friend sitting across the table. “That doesn’t mean you weren’t cute—I’m sure you were much more huggable and adorable than any of those awful kids—plus, you had the talent to make it to Russia as a professional ballet dancer; I’m sure none of them have done that.”

Yuuri blushes brighter under Viktor’s praise, taking another sip of his tea. Viktor can’t help thinking how cute Yuuri would look even now if he was heavier, more soft curves and warmth to embrace. His thoughts are cut short by a quiet confession from Yuuri.

“I was such a fanboy of yours when I was little,” he starts, voice a little nervous but eyes bright. “I can still remember the first time I saw you at the Grand Prix of your senior debut—you were so beautiful and graceful and amazing; so unlike boring, plain me. You captivated and inspired me; to chase my dreams, to be here now.

“I used to daydream about someday meeting you; of maybe becoming a skater and meeting you on the ice, or cheering you on from the stands in my terrible Russian. But instead you ran into _me_ at the park, and we’re friends. I still can’t believe it.” Finally looking at Viktor, brown eyes boring into blue. He bites his lip around a smile and a half-laugh, “sorry, that was really embarrassing, huh?”

“Yuuri, that’s...” Viktor can’t find the words. He’s both elated and nauseous. He knew Yuuri had been a fan before they had met, knew that he didn’t treat him like the rest of the crowd did, but he hadn’t realised how deep the admiration ran. The current uninspired and unmotivated Viktor doesn’t feel worthy of the praise. Not sure how he can stop his new friend from being let down over the reality.

“You don’t have to say anything; I know I was lame.”

“No! No, I—I’m just really happy we met the way we did Yuuri, as two dog dads in the park, and not as competitors or a celebrity and fan.” Trying to organise his thoughts as the warmth of the sun shines overhead, Yuuri listening closely. His gaze is soft and patient—waiting without pushing. “Skating has been such a big part of my life for so long that I’m only now realising how much I haven’t done outside of it. I think you and Vicchan are the only friends I have who aren’t skaters or in the industry.

“It means so much to hear how much you loved my skating, Yuuri. Now I just have to remember that feeling for myself before next season starts.”

“You don’t enjoy skating anymore?”

“It’s not that; I think I just hate the expectation of winning. Even the other competitors assume there will be no challenge for gold—aside from my darling friend Chris, but we both know neither of us is getting younger, and the opportunity he may have had to overtake me in the past is probably long gone. My inspiration is wearing thin and I don’t want to disappoint the audience.”

It’s the first time Viktor’s admitted it out loud, despite it having percolated and intensified in his mind for the last several months—maybe even years. And rather than the disappointment he had half expected from the younger man, Yuuri instead looks sad. Reaching a hand to lightly touch Viktor’s own. The warmth from the point of contact should feel like it’d burn just from the tension between this moment and the next, but it's warm and grounding instead, just like the rest of Yuuri.

“You don’t need to work so hard to please everyone else before yourself. If that’s taking a break from the ice, or choosing a more conventional routine, it doesn’t matter—what matters is you made that choice.

“Just be yourself, Viktor, and no one could ever be disappointed.”

❖

He _knows_ it’s only been a month, and he _knows_ he’s incredibly inexperienced when it comes to long-term romantic relationships, but Yuuri is sweet and kind and beautiful and ready to tease Viktor over whatever he deems to be too dorky—which, he’s found out, is a lot. Not to mention how beautiful he is, or his undying love for dogs. It would have been impossible for Viktor to not have developed a crush.

They walk the poodles most mornings after tea at the same little cafe as they had met the first time, enough so that the waitress knows what they’ll be ordering without even having to ask. Viktor has even convinced Yuuri on a half-dozen occasions to indulge in a bite of honeyed pryanik too; offering a piece broken from the corner, sharing the fork between them. Every time Yuuri gives a tiny moan of happiness as he swallows it down, his own honey-laced eyes sparkling with the delicious taste of the forbidden treat, and Viktor almost goes into cardiac arrest. In fact, he should probably start cutting back on the pastries himself if he doesn’t want to struggle to get ice ready at the end of summer. He still hasn’t decided on what his plans are, but Yuuri’s been helping him to be more comfortable about that indecision. The first priority has been to spend more time directing his thoughts towards things other than skating, to try and find some inspiration for programs—always starting with his hour and a half with Yuuri and the dogs.

Today is a little different though, as it’s the beginning of Yuuri’s schedule getting busier.

With the summer quickly approaching, so too is the company’s performance of _Swan Lake_. It means longer hours rehearsing for the danseur, and much less time for him to spend with Vicchan, much to the Japanese man’s chagrin. Which is why Viktor is here, standing outside of Yuuri’s apartment door, trying to check if his hair is perfect in the shine of the doorknob before it’s opened. He had offered to take both poodles to walk the familiar circuit around the park the day before, eager to help Yuuri out (and to also have the rare opportunity of being invited to the other man’s apartment).

Makka is getting antsy the longer they stand outside though, probably able to smell the male poodle on the other side. She gives a short bark of complaint before Viktor finally sighs and knocks. It only takes a handful of seconds before he can hear the lock turn and the door swing open to welcome them in—Yuuri all smiles and relief as he thanks Viktor yet again for helping him out.

Viktor steps into the apartment and toes off his shoes; guest slippers already waiting next to the shoe cabinet. Makkachin trots after Vicchan, curious about the new place, and Yuuri follows—his own slippers softly padding along the hardwood as he explains where he keeps the leash, dry food, treats and coat for his fluffy companion. Viktor nods and stays quiet, still somewhat shocked speechless at the way Yuuri looks.

If he had met Yuuri like this the first time, without the thick coat and bundled up outfit of early Russian spring, he’d never have doubted that Yuuri was a dancer. Now, with a lighter outfit of a t-shirt and leggings, his toned physique is obvious. Strong, svelte muscles of a ballerino perfectly holding his posture. The graceful shift from one movement to the other that Viktor _must_ have witnessed from the lithe figure before, but never _realised_. He’s also not wearing his glasses as normal—large, brown eyes lined with just a hint of inky black instead. Viktor has never felt as incredibly gay as he does right now, and he swallows thickly when the dancer’s back is turned, recalculating all of his understanding of Yuuri to include _unbelievably fucking sexy._

He espouses those exact words to the poodles once they’re happily walking the park and Yuuri has long-left for practice. His only response is an impatient yip from Vicchan who eyes the small stick he had been throwing for them, totally unaware of the embarrassingly explicit fantasies his master and his _flexibility_ had conjured up in Viktor’s (admittedly kinda desperate) imagination.

The plan is to safely deliver Vicchan back to the apartment via the spare key Yuuri so graciously entrusted to him, and Viktor is still reeling at that sign of confidence. He’d much prefer an excuse to meet up again with the dancer either at the park or Viktor’s own apartment once rehearsal is done, but he’s not sure how late Yuuri will be, and doesn’t want to risk possibly making Yuuri think he’s dog-napped the toy poodle or is hanging out in his apartment like a creep. It’s been a while since Viktor’s last relationship, but he’s pretty sure that’s an immediate end to any potential there may be.

And he _really_ hopes there’s potential.

❖

It’s late into April when the weather starts to warm up. Summer is just around the corner, and the lengthening days only serve to confirm it. St Petersburg is already starting to bustle with international tourists, hoping to have fun during the White Night festivities. The park Viktor usually takes the dogs is filled with even more picnickers than usual; dozens of couples laying or sitting on the grass, kissing, and a group of school kids case each other in a massive game of tag—celebrating the end of classes, it seems. The positive energy radiating off of everyone is even more of an indication to the change in seasons than anything else, the excitement chasing off any lingering melancholy of winter that may have clung around.

Viktor, too, is more excited than normal.

Today is the first day in forever that Yuuri has been able to wrap up rehearsals before the sun sets—a time that had been getting pushed further and further back as the weeks had passed. Viktor had offered to meet him for a late dinner in the interim, but Yuuri had always apologised with a short call or text—saying he’d probably fall asleep face-first in his meal if he did anything other than curl into bed after practice. Viktor honestly wouldn’t have minded that scenario too much, but he lets Yuuri get his rest—hopes pinned on the elusive “next time, next time” Yuuri always promised.

Well, next time had come. The plan was for Yuuri to freshen up and change before meeting Viktor and the pair of dogs in the park, and so the five-time Worlds gold medallist is sitting on the bench he had first discovered Yuuri on; both poodles sniffing around the overgrown bushes at all the new smells recently deposited. Over the weeks since the shift in schedules Viktor’s role had evolved to more so dog-sitting than just dog-walking, and he’s grown familiar to both the poodles’ quirks when they’re together. He’s not paying them too much attention now though.

Viktor is halfway between nervous and ecstatic, drawing little designs in the dirt with the toe of his shoe. Those mindless scribbles turn to step sequences—from past routines, from no routine—and he marks a spot for a quad-triple combo. There’s no song he has in mind that he’s working through, just a bunch of disparate parts accompanying the butterflies in his stomach. He checks the time on his phone yet again, no new messages, and sighs. Yakov had always complained about Viktor’s impatience, but he had always chalked it up to the old coach’s gruff Soviet style before now.

Impatient or not, Viktor can’t help how much he wants to see Yuuri after so long.

It’s only another five minutes before the danseur arrives—his poodle barking loudly in recognition of the Japanese man jogging to them. Cheeks flushed a rosy pink from the mild exertion and the warmth, Yuuri is radiant. The edge of his fringe is brushing the frames of his glasses, falling in its perfectly unstyled muss as he bends to embrace both dogs running to greet him. Viktor feels like doing the same, if it’d mean a hug.

Dinner is planned for a local restaurant Viktor had checked was both well-rated and dog-friendly, hoping that Yuuri would like the food. It’s warm enough that sitting outside is pleasant, the Japanese man has nothing but compliments.

Viktor hadn’t organised the night under the pretence of it being a date (or, at least, not completely), but he does hope that it will be the start of more nights like this one.

They walk side by side around the streets with the dogs afterwards. Sellers already have stalls out selling cheap toys and trinkets to the kids running around. The proper carnivals won’t start until next month, but there’s still money to be made. Bouncing balls that light up, cheap gliders to throw, sticky gelatinous mounds that inevitably get covered in fuzz for pocket change. Ice cream vendors and baked goods already serving long lines of customers. Viktor fights the prickly urge to take Yuuri’s hand in his. Wonders if he can make the excuse of not wanting to lose him in the crowd.

Yuuri tells him stories of the summer festivals in his hometown—of temples being lit up with stalls and fireworks. Of trying to scoop goldfish and toss rings. Of men carrying floats in procession to the sound of drums and bells; crowds cheering for their strength.

A group of kids accidentally knocks into them, and a boy drops his things in the scuffle. He apologises with a huff, frowning at the ice cream now decorating the floor. Viktor retrieves a bill from his wallet and gives it to him to replace the dessert with a smile. Both dogs sniff at the mess, one of the sticky balls in lime green now covered in dirt and melting ice cream.

He moves to replace his wallet into his pocket, and then everything goes wrong.

Makka’s whole body shakes with a retch—the sticky ball having disappeared down her throat, leaving a vanilla-flavoured puddle, and she rasps in a horrifying way. She’s forcefully trying to dislodge it, and it takes a moment before the reality that she’s _choking_ hits Viktor like a freight train. The panic circumvents any shock and he falls to his knees to embrace his dog; Yuuri already at her side, holding her close and trying to get her to relax in his arms. Vicchan is whining in his own upset, not sure what to do as the larger dog keeps retching and both humans surrounding her. Viktor can’t tell if his hands are shaking or if it’s just poor Makka still trying to force a breath; he feels powerless, not able to fight back the reality that his longest, most precious companion is dying in his arms.

“She’s still breathing, so her airway isn’t completely blocked. Can you lift her?” Yuuri asks. Serious determination sets his brow, and Viktor numbly nods at whatever his plan is. Putting one arm under her butt, the other across her shoulder blades, he holds her like a baby. Cradled in the same way he had used to do when she was still a puppy—the memory stinging as he gets to his feet. Once they’re both standing, Yuuri signals for a taxi—Vicchan under one arm, the other waving furiously. They were lucky that they were on one of the main roads, where banks of them are waiting to overcharge foreign tourists, and Yuuri opens the door to let Viktor into the back of the first one that pulls up.

“[Here please.]” Yuuri instructs the driver in Russian, showing off an address from his phone screen; his accent softening around some of the consonants.

The drive could only be a handful of minutes, but each second feels like an eternity. Makka is still shuddering with coughs, but it’s a sign she’s still alive—still fighting. He takes a deep breath and holds her close. Commits her warmth to his skin and petting her head, hoping to offer even a little bit of comfort.

They leave the taxi in front of a 24 hour veterinarian, and Yuuri hurries usher Viktor and his precious cargo inside without a second to spare. The woman behind the desk jumps up to lead them into an examination room, and Viktor explains the situation the best he can. Makka lies on the table with rasping pants, and she looks so _tired_. Viktor wants to cry. Instead he holds her front paw with a prayer as the vet sedates her.

Yuuri has his other hand held tight in his—although Viktor had hoped it would happen less than thirty minutes before, he hadn’t expected it like this.

An oxygen tube is inserted and the inhale Viktor takes feels like he’s the one being pumped with the sweet air instead. In sleep Makkachin is peaceful; her chest moving up and down evenly. The vet is caring as she talks through the procedure for Viktor, explaining each step as she goes. The sticky ball of jelly-like rubber goes into a tray once it’s extracted, and she announces everything a success.

With Makka staying overnight for observation, Yuuri walks Viktor to his apartment instead—inviting him in with a wordless request. Viktor is too emotionally drained to feel more than the endless gratitude he has for the other man and his quick action. He sits on the couch under Yuuri’s instruction and fights the urge to curl up in a ball as the other man prepares tea. Vicchan whimpers at the stressful events and retreats to his small bed sadly. Yuuri gives the small fluffball a pet and kiss on the top of his head before joining Viktor on the couch—not touching him anymore, but close enough to feel the warmth from his body. The tea sits hot and steaming, fragrant and citrusy from where Yuuri deposited it on the table in front of him. A sip confirms that it’s black with a heaping teaspoon of marmalade. Viktor’s favourite. The type Yuuri complains about the most.

Yuuri doesn’t push for words, just sits in silence with him until Viktor shudders out a breath thick with tears. The opposite of Viktor and his impatience, maybe. Perfect in a genuine way, rather than the false personas the Russian had built of himself on the ice.

“You were incredible, Yuuri. Without you there, she—she probably—” himself choking on the thought. “I was useless.”

“No you weren’t Viktor; you were by her side.” He’s taken Viktor’s hand again, the other rubbing gentle circles on his back, and it’s too sweet a kindness for how the skater feels he deserves right now. “She’s going to be OK, and tomorrow she’ll prove to you how much that mattered.

“That’s more than I was able to when I was in the same situation.”

Viktor can’t find words, but it seems Yuuri doesn’t need them to continue his story.

“I went to university in the US—found myself a place in one of the big companies in New York whilst studying. It was probably about six, seven months ago now when I was still living there. I hadn’t been back home in years, and Vicchan was still living at my parents’ place.

“I had a big show—the first I had ever been principal—and it was my chance to prove to everyone, to _myself_ , that I deserved to be on the stage.”

There’s still some pride in that sentence, hidden under the layers of sadness. The dancer coughs before continuing, biting his lip against the words as if he really doesn’t want to share. Viktor’s always been bad at this—trying to find the comforting things that might help. He laces their fingers together instead. Yuuri gives a shadow of a smile, before looking away and continuing.

“An hour before curtain up my sister Mari called. Vicchan had been hit by a car and the outlook wasn’t good.

“I was half a world away and about to take the stage—I probably should have withdrawn, let the understudy take my place, but I was too proud. I was a mess and my performance was worse. After the third night of ruining everyone’s hard work I was pulled from the show. I left the company in shame and returned home without having achieved anything worth the time spent away.”

“Oh, _Yuuri_ ,” is all Viktor can say. His heart is breaking again, the second time tonight, and he’s not sure he will ever fit the pieces back into their places again.

“He survived the accident but he still had two broken legs and underwent surgery three times when I was gone. All I could do was help him with his physical therapy so he could learn to walk again; honestly, that was probably the only thing stopping me from giving up on dancing entirely. He was working so hard to move freely again—and I had to do the same.

“Minako, my ballet teacher, found me this opportunity here and I took it—but this time with Vicchan by my side.”

This time he does know what he can say—the one thing screaming loudest in his chest in the moment. He cups the other’s cheek and looks into his eyes. “I’m so glad he survived, Yuuri. I’m so glad _you_ did.”

“ _Haah_ , maybe. I still struggle with trying to get things right. I’m not very good at it in general.”

“That’s not true. Tonight you were both Makka’s and my hero.” Looking at the small sleeping dog he turns back to Yuuri with a half-smile, “...and without either of them, we never would have met.”

The tea is gone and Yuuri offers to make another cup, but Viktor shakes his head with a yawn. He’s sleepy and dreading the walk home alone, having to spend the night alone in his apartment without her familiar warmth and weight sharing the bed. As if reading Viktor’s mind Yuuri offers to let him stay instead—and the skater can only get out half a protest before his eyes flutter closed, fast asleep. He dreams of the sun reflecting off the Neva, Yuuri by his side and a hundred poodles of all sizes and colours running around. Makka and Vicchan at their ankles, nose to nose. Happy and healthy and hopeful. All of them together.

By the time Viktor wakes the next morning, bright light is streaming from the windows and the sound of sizzling from the kitchen accompany the domestic atmosphere. He sits up haphazardly from where he had been lying on the sofa—a lightweight but warm blanket draped over him.

“Hey,” Yuuri calls from where he’s working in the kitchen, sleeves rolled to his elbows and an apron on. “I thought we could have some breakfast before going to pick up Makka.”

Viktor’s heart flutters and his stomach curls in happiness, finally able to appreciate the comfort of normalcy like this. Yuuri saved not only Makkachin, but Viktor too. Again.

The table is set for two places, plates and small bowls and cutlery all laid out already. Viktor seats himself at the spot without chopsticks—hot tea already steaming. It’s green this morning, rather than the black he had last night. Sipping it slowly he expects to find it too bitter, but the taste is more refreshing than he expected.

“I made a full Japanese breakfast for us,” Yuuri says, spooning the miso and rice to serve. The fish freshly cooked. “It always makes me feel better having a proper meal after something so upsetting, but this is all I had in the apartment. Sorry if it’s not to your taste.”

Viktor is used to weeks of yolkless omelettes and grilled, skinless chicken for breakfast in preparation for competitions. _Anything_ is better than that.

“ _Vkusno!_ ” is all Viktor can say, eagerly inhaling his meal. He’s amazed at how anyone could dislike Yuuri’s cooking, and tells him as much. It earns the skater a shy blush, and his toes curl in his socks at how cute Yuuri is. Viktor really wants this—quiet mornings together without the publicity of the cafe. The possibility of spending more of, most of, their time together.

The maybe-date had been cut short last night in the most dramatic and heart-wrenching way possible, but the Japanese man had stayed with him and comforted him and spilled his own shames and secrets. He _really likes_ Yuuri, maybe more than he’s ever liked someone else before, and he doesn’t think he can pretend otherwise.

Before he can share the sentiment though, Yuuri stands abruptly and hurries to a side table with a “Oh, before I forget!”—his movements soft and graceful as always, but with an air of excitement. The danseur hands over a crisp envelope and prompts Viktor to look inside; he already has a pretty good guess as to what’s inside.

“Your Swan Lake ticket, opening night. I hope you can make it.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

❖

Unsurprisingly, the Hermitage Theatre is packed with people, even though most focus on the Mariinsky for the Stars of the White Nights. The crowds are thick with locals and tourists alike come to see the Russian ballet at such a prestigious venue, by an incredibly respected company—a fact Yuuri had failed to mention in the weeks and months leading to now. Luxury drips from every point and the chandelier glitters in the centre of the ceiling, but the small space makes it feel much more intimate than any of the other multitudes of theatres St Petersburg is home to.

The programme promises a fulfilling show that gives new depth to the story, so Viktor hopes that it will have the happy ending at least (or at least as happy as any Russian ballet will allow). Then he can congratulate Yuuri on a successful show, escort him back to their waiting pups in his apartment, and confess his growing affection to the other man with the help of celebratory champagne.

His seats are far from the best, off to the far left, but he’s close to the stage—able to see the expressions of the dancers easily. The story of the beautiful princess being cursed into a swan; her white outfit filled with delicate lace and gemstones as she glides across the stage. She and the other swan maidens dance in a beautiful synchronicity, and Viktor strains to find Yuuri amongst the mix of other men and women. None match the dark-haired man—each a pure, snowy white; with sharp points and a faux fragility. Just enough to look and act like the untouched, effortless perfection that’s required.

In fact, Viktor can’t pick out Yuuri from any of the dancers—either he’s gotten _really bad_ at recognising faces (an impossibility when it comes to the Japanese man) or he hasn’t taken the stage yet.

That is, until the third Act—the grand ball and betrayal. The scene starts, Prince Siegfried being presented with the princesses, sure to dance with Odette but instead being tricked by sorcery and Rothbart’s own child.

And there is Yuuri—the enchanting black swan, Odile, covered in inky black and glittering gems. Dark makeup of smoke and sultry promises. His first spin is like watching magic itself being woven; Viktor can completely understand how the Prince had been so utterly bewitched by such beauty. Yuuri’s steps and spins are pure seduction, his whole body seeming to beckon the audience in. The orchestra seems unneeded with how the danseur is able to create music with his movements, and Viktor doesn’t dare even blink for the entire time.

At the end of his solo, Yuuri’s reaching out for the prince—hopeful the prince is under his spell. Viktor burns under the emotion of the stare, and realises with a start that Yuuri is looking at _him_ and not the other dancer on stage. The seduction, the magic, all for him. Viktor wants to reach out and entangle their fingers—to dance his response in the only way he knows: on the ice. Sharp blades carving his feelings into something tangible. To jump and spin as a way to share everything he feels in his heart.

He’s in love.

Oh, _oh_ , he’s in love.

As the stage goes dark, he stands and runs out.

❖

He mentally thanks his own celebrity status for the ease in which he’s able to get backstage—security only nodding at him as he tells them he’s here to support a friend. The bouquet he’d bought is fragrant and lends to the excuse well, the velvety roses cradled in one arm.

Staff frown as he wanders around for a place where he can wait, until one harried woman directs him to a small green room filled with a handful of young dancers—understudies he presumes, all in their late teens. A couple eyebrows raise and whispers break out amongst them; he’s well known by most in the city, after all.

The orchestra reaches the grand finale, and thunderous applause starts as soon as the final note drops. Viktor still doesn’t know whether the Prince and the Swan Queen lived Happily Ever After, or if the evil Rothbart was successful in keeping them apart for all eternity.

It doesn’t matter.

The sound of dozens of dancers gets closer as everything ends, the chatter elated from the success of a good show. Men and women clad in white feathers and tulle, or the finery of royals in their costumes. Yuuri is a fragment of obsidian amongst them, talking with the danseur who had portrayed Rothbart. The Japanese man is even more captivating than his character on stage.

He takes a step closer, and that catches Yuuri’s attention. His whole face brightens, jubilant.

“Viktor, how did–?”

The rest of the sentence is swallowed down in the kiss, Yuuri relaxing into the feeling immediately. His hands moving to lace themselves through silver hair, tilting his own head to lean in closer. Tongue as warm as the rest of him, twisting around Viktor’s own with sinful promises of more, more, _more_. The flowers are forgotten, squished between them and someone in their audience says “seems our Odile seduced more than just the Prince” in humoured Russian. Yuuri snorts a little laugh at that, finally breaking off to look Viktor in the eyes—specks of gold woven into the rich brown, sparkling.

“Who needs that dumb prince anyway?”

❖

The park is, as always, filled with dogs of all sizes and breeds. Vicchan yips at an overly-friendly Pomeranian, before running ahead to catch up with Makkachin. He keeps an eye on them both, but they seem too preoccupied in each other to get into too much trouble.

The sun is creeping higher and it’s ascent means Viktor doesn’t have too much time to spare before Yakov expects him at the rink. He’s not sure how much more practising and perfecting his programs need before NHK, but considering that it’ll be the first time Yuuri will be accompanying him to a competition, he supposes he can humour his coach for once.

The planned week of relaxation at the Katsuki onsen afterwards sounds like heaven too, even if he’s still stressing over how to make the best first impression to Yuuri’s family. The dancer had only laughed at his attempts to ask about gifts, rolling over to fit Viktor snugly beneath him on the bed with sweet kisses and chuckling praises. Needless to say, any talk of _family_ after that was forgotten.

Well, not _entirely_ forgotten, as it was that same night that he’d asked Yuuri about growing theirs, basking in the comforting enormity of his love for the other man. Yuuri, ever wonderful, perfect Yuuri, had agreed. Once they’re back from Japan, they can finalise the details at his favourite shelter; Makka and Vicchan sure to be the best siblings any puppy could wish for.

A buzzing goes off in his pocket for his alarm—time’s up, a perpetually cranky septuagenarian awaits. Yuuri kisses his cheek and squeezes the hand he’s holding at Viktor’s sigh, the gold of his ring shining bright under the weak winter sun. Its partner on Viktor’s own finger.

“I’ll see you at home. Love you.” he presses into his own kiss. Yuuri smiles back, happiness so deep in his gaze that Viktor hopes he can drown in it for the rest of his life.

“ _Mmm_ , good luck,” his fiancé nods. “I love you, too.”

And Viktor knows he’s the luckiest man in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone, and thanks for reading!!
> 
> This was another work written for the always wonderful and patient Tiffany, who asked for a short 101 Dalmations-inspired meet-cute fic...that spiralled into this.
> 
> Apologies for any glaring inaccuracies as always; research can only ever tell me so much about a city and its events without having experienced them myself. Hopefully, I was otherwise successful.  
> 
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/writinggee) | [My other YOI fic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gee_Writes/works?fandom_id=11444638)


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